The snow was still falling lightly as the convoy emerged onto the winding road that led to the hills of Mirath. The wagon wheels groaned, cutting through the early morning silence like a distant lament. At the front, Damon rode silently, his face hidden by the shadow of his hood, his eyes fixed on the mist that shrouded the valley. Beside him, Ester stood erect, her gloves stained with ash and ink—the traces of everything they had gathered and burned in Paraphal.
Behind them, a silent line of women rode in two covered wagons, wrapped in torn blankets, fear and uncertainty etched in their eyes. With each jolt, one clutched the amulet of faith around her neck, another murmured a silent prayer.
